Alpha (Prologue)

A device made of metal, plastic, and glass flies over the roof of the Ngogo Rainforest.

It is small enough to fit inside a trouser pocket and it makes no sound but for some faint whines and clicks.

It is looking for something – or, to be more exact, it is looking for someone.

The researchers who built the device know that it is a sophisticated micro drone, but when glimpsed from afar it looks just like a tiny species of white hummingbird. And it is for this resemblance that the drone, and others like it, are named; the researchers call them, simply, ‘Birds’.

Everything a Bird does is bird-like. Its nano-wings flap at a remarkable speed in order to generate the momentum necessary for flight, and they spread out at length when managing shifts and hitches in the wind. When a Bird must negotiate a tighter path, such as through the twining branches of the rainforest canopy, it employs a multitude of sensors to ensure smooth passage. The same sensors allow it to perform sudden, reflexive getaways if attack or capture seem imminent.

Ground mobility and perch mechanisms, meanwhile, mean that a Bird can sustain great periods of stillness, such as on the bough of a tree, and it is from such vantage points that it watches, records, processes. When it surveys its surroundings in this way, it exhibits the characteristic twitchy alertness of a real bird, swivelling its head this way and that, jerking at the slightest of sounds or movements, as if it knows when things are going to happen well before they do.

This impression of foresight is aided by its eyes; they are densely packed with miniature cameras that instinctively know when to focus and un-focus. It has been reported that to hold gaze with a Bird – to look into those strange eyes – makes for a mildly unsettling experience.

If a number of camera angles need to be deployed at once, then up to thirty Birds can assemble in a flock. Borrowing from rules observed in groups of migratory birds, the Birds – as if responding to some cue or signal – suddenly swarm into compact formation and travel to an agreed destination. Once there, they disperse ever so slightly and gather round a point of interest. Arranged like this, perched so close together, they seem to work in wordless unison. They twitch and jerk and watch as one. And if they stay like this long enough, their collective whines and clicks build into what can only be described as their own distinctive chattering birdsong. Fortunately, it is a sound that only the keenest of ears can make out among the other noises of the rainforest; like everything the Birds do, it remains half hidden, barely there at all.

The Bird that now flies over the roof of the rainforest has almost reached its destination.

It moves with a purposefulness that suggests it is being controlled remotely – and it is true that sometimes it will be manually directed by a researcher – but right now it is working autonomously. It knows who it is looking for, and it knows how to reach them. It is being left to do its job.

It slows to a hover.

It is above an area of the rainforest known as Heshma Territory. This is where the chimpanzees of the Heshma Troop live. The Bird knows the exact demarcations of the Heshma Troop’s borders far better than the chimpanzees themselves do. It is all mapped out in its head, along with the various other territories of the rainforest – and so when a scream unpeels itself across the air, the Bird knows that it comes from a Heshma chimp and not a chimp belonging to another troop.

Without warning, the Bird plunges down into the canopy.

As it darts through criss-crossed branches and tigery shadows of green and brown and purple, it disappears and reappears and disappears, over and over, until at last it finds a tree that overlooks a small clearing.

Here it stops, and watches.

Squatting in the middle of the clearing, quite alone, is a chimpanzee.

Her name is Mo.

At first, Mo looks faintly comical for the human resemblance she bears. There is something uncannily familiar about the look in her eyes, about the presence of intelligence there, of knowingness, as if she is a woman staring out from inside a costume. And for a long time it is hard to shake this idea that it really is no more than that, just a trick, just a costume: the over-long arms; the hands and feet like leather gloves; the thumbs set savagely far apart from the adjoining fingers as if they have been broken and bent out of place; the coat of coarse black fur that has grown worn and damaged, showing the skin here and there underneath; the ears that look as if they have never stopped growing; the flat head; the long face; the elastic lips; the shelf of brow; and then those eyes again, trapped, looking out.

But the researchers have long since disavowed themselves of such an impression. They see past the absurdity and straight to the truth of these chimpanzees. There is, after all, an artfulness in the curves of the head when set in profile; there is something philosophical about the expression in the face; there is a confidence, a cockiness even, in the easy languidness of the joints. There is nobility here and beauty.

There is nothing noble or beautiful, however, about what Mo is doing right now.

She is staring dully into space and making rapid finger movements through her vulva. Were a researcher looking through the eyes of the Bird at this moment, they would be able to explain that Mo, as is her unshakeable habit, is masturbating.

This is not what the Bird has come looking for, though.

It thinks a little, twitches, then takes flight once more.

The next time it stops, it finds itself in good company. Perched on the trees around it are several other Birds. The arrival of a new Bird does not distract them; they all continue to stare intently at what is taking place below.

This time, on the forest floor, there are five chimpanzees.

One is stealing the show.

He conducts an explosive charging display, stamping his feet rhythmically and pounding his fists against tree trunks, scattering the other four chimps.

But this is not it either.

The Bird thinks a little, twitches, then takes flight once more.

It is getting closer.

As it weaves through the trees, it draws further and further towards the edge of Heshma Territory.

The sounds of the rainforest click and trill and woop, like a thousand alarm clocks set off at once. But amidst it all the Bird makes out the sound that it wants – the sound that suggests it has timed its journey perfectly.

It is not dissimilar to the sound of human childbirth: anguished yelps, repressed screams.

But when the Bird alights on a low-hanging branch to watch the figure that pushes and strains in the roots of an old msulula tree, it sees not a woman but another chimpanzee.

Her name is Ada.

A head hangs out from between her legs.

Ada has broken away from the other chimps. Just for a while. Soon she will return. But for now she is alone, seeing out a period that the researchers call her ‘maternity leave’.

As the Bird watches her, it senses another Bird, a tiny white fleck in the opposing tree, watching the scene too.

This is Ada’s personal Bird. It has been assigned to her. It has watched her for many years.

It is perhaps an anthropomorphic stretch to say that Ada’s Bird winks at the first Bird and that the first Bird winks back; but there is definitely something that passes between them, some sort of twitch of recognition. They are going to be spending a lot of time together.

And now they both watch.

With one last push, Ada’s baby tumbles wetly out of her. The infant is male and small enough to fit in the crook of Ada’s arm, but before she can hold it she must first make sure it is alive. She lifts it by its crumpled legs and sucks and licks at the gunky caul until the infant is revealed in its barest form: it has hair just like a fully grown chimp does, but the hair is sparse and patchy and the pink skin that shows through is bright and raw. The umbilical cord, meanwhile, remains attached but Ada ignores it; in time it will wither and dry and slough away of its own accord.

Ada cradles the infant at last and listens to its first breaths.

It has been a hard day, so – once she is sure that their hearts are beating as one – she lies back and sleeps.

The Bird wastes no time.

It darts down to the infant, locks its claws lightly into the hairs on its back, and inserts its beak into the skin.

It is all done in no more than a few seconds.

The microchip is embedded in the infant chimp, and the Bird retracts its beak and returns to the tree branch.

And that's that.

The assignation is complete.

The chimp is called Isaac.

Now the Bird will watch Isaac. Watch him for many years to come.

It will watch as he takes his first breaths, it will watch as he drinks his mother’s milk for the first time, it will watch as Isaac has his first dream.

It will watch as Isaac clings to his mother’s chest hairs, watch as he rides on her back, watch his first steps, his first climb, his first play fight.

It will be watching the first time that Isaac smiles, the first time he laughs, the first time he bears his teeth in fear, the first time he screams.

But in time, as the years pass, the Bird will do more than watch.

At the behest of the researchers, it will start to interfere. And then the real work will begin.